


Welcome To Lodge House

by Wildergirl



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, But there are reasons, F/M, Jughead has a slight British accent, Jughead is a psychopath, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, dark bughead, updates every wednesday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22910134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildergirl/pseuds/Wildergirl
Summary: Summary: Betty thought getting into college a year early was a dream come true. But when she's bullied out of her dorm, she finds herself with nowhere to go. Enter Jughead Jones, a photographer with moonlit eyes and a funny accent. He invites her to stay the night at his place, which he shares with two others. Betty thinks she's hit the jackpot, roommate wise. It seems too good to be true. Archie Andrews,  majoring in music, and a liking for Pokemon is the house joker and a terrible cook, and Veronica Lodge is a bouncing ball of energy the second she meets her.But the house, as well as the residents are hiding something. And the boy she is falling for is complicated, to say the least.or: Roommate fic with a twist.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	1. British Guy

* * *

Prologue. 

Ten minutes after Jughead Jones's Uber had arrived outside 45 Maple Drive, he was still standing at the gate. He wasn't sure if it was his anxiety acting up, that familiar twist in his gut and suffocating ache in his chest, or he was simply taken aback by the sight in front of him. The house was large and imposing; built on three stories. It almost looked like a final boss, as appose to all of the other houses on the street.

Maple Drive was a student district. Each house twisting down the drive looked exactly the same, small and boxlike. All of them had the exact same neatly cut hedge running around the perimeter of a tiny garden and a well tended to flower bed. Even the proportions of the doors and windows were identical, three windows at the front under the same caramel coloured door. Though it made sense. Kids wanted the cheapest price. But number 45 was in a whole league of its own. It almost reminded him of a fairytale. With the builder using his or her favourite childhood book for inspiration. The house was a complicated, asymmetrical shape with redbrick walls eaten by ivy and moss. The perfect example of nature striking back. Ancient. Gorgeous. Those were the words that popped into Jughead's mind when he lifted the old fashioned canon hanging around his neck on tacky black ribbon, his finger hovering on the clicker.

He took a steady breath, reveling in the bitter late January breeze which toyed with his hair, lashing his cheeks.

Jughead took several photos, crouching awkwardly to get the best angle from his position behind the gate. Right then, he didn't care if he was being watched. When Jughead was taking photos, he was in his element. 

He never took a spontaneous photo. Jughead always had to give himself a moment to take it in, to let his senses run wild. His smell, taste and touch. He could taste the gum he'd been chewing the whole Uber ride. The mint stung the back of his throat, but it was a good sting. The aroma of freshly cut grass hit him, turning his gut slightly. Because the smell must have been coming from somewhere else. What tickled in his nose was...life. The sweet smell of freshly cut grass, mildew and flowers somehow still surviving, blooming bright in the dead of winter. Which definitely didn't match what he was looking at. 

Despite towering over every other house, number 45 hid behind fencing that looked older than the house itself. There wasn't much of a garden, but whatever was there had died a long time ago. A small patch of grass surrounded skeletal flowers drooping in what used to be a flowerbed. Jughead took more pictures, unable to resist the smile curving on his lips. There was something about humanity being eaten by mother nature that made his heart flutter. His legs were starting to ache from crouching, but he barely felt the dull throb inching down his thighs. The smell was already in his nose, tickling the back of his throat. The stink of rot and mold chewing up the structure, moss clinging to the earth and the pebbled pathway which cut through the expanse of weeds, flowers and dead grass.

The house was no stranger to mother nature's wrath, and the more he looked at it, the less suffocated he felt, that crushing anxious feeling that had been eating him up most of the day, seemed to disperse. Slowly, he straightened up, still grasping his camera. It wasn't just the house itself, it was how it stood, still soaring, still triumphant, in a modern town. Despite looking centuries years old, it was still in reasonably good condition. Number 45 stood out against the late evening sun which bounced from the windows at the front. The house's colours weren't exactly bright, but bathed in the setting sun, it still shined with a mixture of bright earth tones. It was beautiful. 

Jughead caught himself grinning. But he couldn't seem to stop. This wasn't what he'd been expecting, and it definitely wasn't why he was here. The state of the house had been a nice surprise, as if just by talking to him, the owner realised his love for all things dead, all things rot and stink and decay. Fall and Winter were his favourite months. He'd go out in all variations of weather with his camera, delving into abandoned school's and warehouses, just to get that snapshot of death, the feast of mother nature gorging on humanity. Though he couldn't help wonder. The house looked...dead. Abandoned. At first glance, he'd been sure he had gotten the wrong one. But he'd spoken to the owner. This house was lived in, he'd been reassured of that. The girl on the phone had been far too lively for his liking, and was definitely his age. And yet number 45 looked like it hadn't been touched in years. Huh. He dropped his camera, letting it sit comfortably on his chest. Jughead's stomach twisted again at the thought of making conversation with this girl, but it was money. Like every other kid his age, he was a broke college student in desperate need of cash, and his passion just so happened to help him get by. 

Even if that meant visiting stranger's who wanted their own personal photographer. 

The gate was somewhat rickety, and surely had been sturdy when it was made. It was solid cedar wood held together with great iron nails. But it looked like it hadn't been varnished for ages and the rot had set in. The hinges and nails becoming rusted, the gate hanging at a jaunty angle. Jughead stood for a moment, his stomach dancing, heart beginning to speed up. Ba-bum. He pushed the gate open and it gave off a resounding screeching noise. It sounded like it hadn't been used in a while. But someone lived there. Right? His thoughts became a confusing whirlwind while his heart beat faster. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. The front door was black. Like everything else, it looked ancient. He took slow stride towards it, trying to ignore his hammering heart. It wasn't until Jughead was knocking three times on chipped mahogany, when he started to regret even coming in the first place. It was like stepping into Wonderland. Everything in the garden was dead or dying, twisted plants sprouting from every patch of soil. He inhaled deeply. It was just a job. Just go in, take photos, and then leave. Tipping his head back, Jughead glimpsed a crow perched on the chimney. It stared at him with beady eyes, its beak twitching. He grabbed his camera to take a quick photo, but before he could, the crow flew off, squawking loudly. He cursed the bird, his grip slipping on the canon.

There was no movement from inside the house. No light switching on, or a muffled voice. Even the windows were dark. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to knock again. Three times was rude enough. The girl had been clear. 4pm. He frowned at his watch. Quarter past. So he was a little late, but according to her texts she'd be home all day. 

Jughead's gaze snapped to the path. Something had caught his attention, reflecting in the dying haze of the sun. It stuck out from beneath his boot. When he hastily lifted it up, he realised he was standing on a card. Though it wasn't an ordinary card. 

Squatting, he picked it up, turning it over in his palm. Nostalgia hit him like a brick to the face. It was a Pokemon card. He wasn't an avid watcher of Pokemon when he was a kid, but Jughead recognised the cartoon creature on the front. It was a Charizard. One of few names he remembered. Obviously including Pikachu. He flipped the card over to see if he was right, glimpsing the Pokemon's stats underneath the name and a brief description. Jughead stared at the card for a moment, his lip curling. Did someone drop this? The owner was a teenage girl, and without judgement, she sounded like the last person who would own a Pokemon card collection. So why was it there in plain sight? Did this girl have younger siblings, or a boyfriend who collected them?

The latter seemed more likely. He was still frowning at it, trying to figure out if it was Charizard which was his friend's favourite when they were kids, when a chuckle startled him. He looked up, his cheeks already smouldering, to see a raven haired girl sticking her head out of the small gap in the door. He didn't even hear it open, and had been paying minimal attention to the card. How did he not notice? The girl was pretty. Definitely his age, or maybe a little older. Though she wasn't exactly his type. He could tell just by looking at her that she was rich. Her hair was silk obsidian framing a heart shaped face, warm chestnut skin perfectly defining her features. Though the most obvious was the string of expensive pearls around her neck. The girl's eyes were bright green. Almost cat like, and the smile on her face loosened the knot in his gut. Jughead relaxed slightly, letting out what he hoped was a quiet breath of relief. 

It took a moment for him to realise she had taken immediate interest in the card still in his hand. "I was never a fan of Pokemon," The girl murmured. Her smile seemed to light up her whole face, and Jughead couldn't seem to stop staring at her. She jutted her chin, gesturing to the card. “That's probably Archie's. He's into that kind of stuff, y'know? He thinks it's nerdy, but I think it's kinda hot. It's like nerd-hot."

The card suddenly felt wrong in his hand, like it didn’t belong. His fingers tightened around it. If he was to be labelled, he'd definitely fit "nerd". But hot? Not so much. Especially not today. He hadn't washed his hair in a while, so he'd just stuck a hat over it. Glimpsing his reflection in the door handle, Jughead winced. He looked a mess. His hair looked overgrown, spilling from his beanie, his eyes overshadowed with sleep circles, a factor of staying up most nights to Photoshop his clients finished products. With countless assignments on top of that, it was no wonder he looked so pale. His fashion sense wasn't great either. The Levi's jacket he was wearing had made up his dress sense for most of his freshman year. With that, simple jeans and checker shirt and his crappy canon hanging around his neck. Jughead practically screamed "photography student". 

He definitely wasn't "nerd hot". Though maybe she had a thing for guys who wore plaid.

After realising he was practically mute, gaping at her in bafflement, Jughead started to speak. But it was like the girl plucked the words straight from his mouth. She cocked her head, her bright eyes dimming slightly. “Archie is just a guy I met on Tinder,” She said casually. As if she could read the questioning in his eyes. “Like I said. He’s nerd hot. Not the type I’d normally date, but cool to fuck around with, y’know?” 

He could do nothing but nod and smile like an idiot. Jughead had no idea what to say. What exactly was he supposed to say to that? Did he delve into the mysteries of this strangers sex life with her? God, he had barely any of his own sexual experience, and here she was, exploiting her own to him. As if they had been best friends most of their lives and hadn’t just officially met five minutes ago. 

His gaze flickered to the string of pearls strung across her throat. This girl didn’t look like the type who even acknowledged boys who collected Pokemon cards. Never mind invited them to her house for whatever reason. Though he suspected it was to do more than swap cards and talk about a goddamn cartoon. 

The door opened fully, and Jughead found himself marvelling the maroon dress that hugged her figure perfectly. Her legs were sculpted to perfection, long and golden. She was bare foot. Jughead’s fingers itched to grab his camera and snap a photo of her, capturing her under the perfect light, the perfect angle. He positioned her in his mind, jerking her chin and straightening her shoulders. Sunset seemed like the perfect time to have a shoot, and he was standing in it. This girl reminded Jughead of an Egyptian goddess. She was the ideal muse. If only they knew each other. If only... she’d agree to be his canvas. Get a hold of yourself, Jughead mentally growled at himself.

He shook his head and instead held out his hand, forcing a wide smile. His anxiety had bled away, making way for a dose of confidence he wasn’t sure he was capable of. The girl seemed as easy to talk to in person as she did on the phone. Suddenly, it seemed so simple to speak, the words flowing from his mouth effortlessly. Almost too easily, like he was on autopilot. “Veronica Lodge? I've come to take those photos you requested. My name is-"

"Forsythe Pendleton Jones!" The girl -Veronica- grabbed his hand, shaking it vigorously. Her ruby coloured lips quirked into a smirk. "Ah, I should have known from your name."

Of course. She was talking about his accent. Despite spending most of his life in the US, it still clung on. Jughead sent her a knowing smile. "I hide it well."

Veronica chuckled. "Clearly." She cocked a brow, and Jughead felt progressively more relaxed. This girl was an extrovert, surely. On paper, she was his worst nightmare. They were the complete opposite. But talking to her felt natural. "I had no idea until you started talking. Though I've got to admit, I can't resist a Brit." She tugged him forward playfully, and Jughead's heart shot into his throat. "Why don't you come in?"

Before he could choke out some kind of reply, the girl was dragging him over the threshold, giggling. "Welcome to my humble abode, Forsythe Pendleton!"

Jughead couldn't help stare. The house wasn't what he'd been expecting. Unlike the outside, which was dead, the inside was the opposite. The place was rustic; earthy colours and textures bleeding into each other. The second he walked through the door, he stepped into warmth. Which was a relief. There was a sweet, lemony scent tingling in his nose. The main hall was cosy and box like. Much like his own. Everything was ornate. Old fashioned. The carpet was a dark purple colour. Veronica led him into the living room, and it was pretty much the same. Except it was much more modern. The room Jughead found himself walking into was large, sectioned off by a huge leather sofa decorated with fluffy cushions that was positioned in front of an even large TV. It was homely. There was a coffee table made of glass, littered with coffee mugs and piles of magazines, mountains of clothes everywhere, board games and jigsaws piled on top of each other.

"Nice house." He commented, nodding appreciatively. The TV was on, though he wasn't sure what it was that she was watching. Probably something on Netflix. 

Veronica smiled brightly. She leaned against the wall, and...yes. Jughead made a grab for his camera, but it would be rude to just start snapping photos of her.

Except how could he not? The way she stood, it almost looked like she was bleeding from the decor; earthy tones and rustic patterns. Maybe he was crazy, but it almost looked like she was part of the house.

"Thanks! My daddy bought it for me as a present when I graduated." There was a sort of cold irony in her voice that he couldn't ignore.

He almost snorted, but stopped himself. "Your father bought you this whole place?" Jughead frowned, wrinkling his brow. She had this huge Victorian house to herself? Compared to his apartment, the place was a mansion. "Do you live with anyone?"

The girl strode over to a door presumably leading to the kitchen. She seemed to dance across the carpet, her dress flying with her. "Not yet!" Veronica replied, pushing her way through the door, golden light seeping through the crack. "Though I'm hoping to find some roommates!"

He followed her at a distance, watching the raven-head flit from cupboard to cupboard, grabbing a fancy looking glass. The kitchen, like the lounge, was small and homey. There was a refrigerator, oven and dishwasher all packed under a curvy countertop, and a large wooden table with four chairs surrounding it. The decor was modern; ocean blue walls, black and white floor tiles and wide windows stretching across the pane framed by blinds filtering sunlight. But it was too clean. Every surface was sparkling, not one thing looking out of place. So either Veronica was a neat freak or she didn't use the kitchen. Leaning against the door frame, Jughead inhaled the smell of crushed coffee beans. “Do you want a hot or cold drink?" Veronica poured herself a glass of wine and stood casually against the sink, taking a sip. Jughead watched her, baffled. The way she moved was breathtaking, every movement was slow and suave. She took her time, and Veronica Lodge knew she was beautiful. She knew she was the perfect muse.

His perfect muse. 

When he didn’t move or speak, she shot him a quizzical smile. “Well?” Veronica cocked her head. “You're not much of a talker, are you? Do you drink, Forsythe?”

“It’s Jughead.” He corrected, twisting his canon’s frayed ribbon around his index. 

The girl held up her glass. "I make a mean mimosa if you'd like one."

Jughead smiled politely. This was for business purposes only. He just had to take the photos, and presto. Done. That's what it had been like with all his other clients. But Veronica was treating it like a social hang out. “Just a glass of water is fine," He said, eager to get things going. He had assignments waiting for him at home, and it was a Saturday night. His own precious time was being eaten up. And Jughead barely had any to begin with. "So, about the photos," He played with the strap, slipping his fingers through the worn material. "What do you need me to take pictures of again?"

"What?" For a second, the girl looked confused. Jughead felt whatever confidence he'd gained in the last few minutes drain away. He shuffled uncomfortably. 

"The photos?" He said, lifting his camera for emphasis. "That's why I'm here, right?" A hysterical laugh burst through his lips that he definitely wasn't proud of.

"Oh, yes, of course!" Veronica pushed away from the sink, and turned to start rifling through the cupboards again. "Sorry! I've just been so excited to see you, I completely forgot about the photos!" The girl seemed to say everything with expletive. If he was writing a book, almost everything she said would end with an exclamation mark.

When he didn't say anything, Veronica cleared her throat. "We'll be taking pictures of Archie, actually!" she said brightly, her back to him. "He's just waiting downstairs." Her voice was strained slightly as she rummaged through the cupboard. "God dammit, where is it?" A pang of anxiety hit him in the chest at the thought of photographing a person. He'd been expecting the girl to want photos of her cat or her insane house's decor. But a guy? He chewed his lip. He wasn't totally experienced in photographing live objects, much less people. Strangers. What did Veronica refer to him as again? A nerdy Tinder date. And what did she mean by "We"? Was she planning on taking photos too? Jughead fought back a hiss of frustration. Why was this particular job turning out to be a train-wreck?

Christ, he just wanted to go home, crash and maybe order pizza. He hadn't eaten all day, so a mental note was made. As soon as he was home: Pizza. That was top priority. 

A crash sounded, and Veronica cursed loudly. Jughead nearly jumped out of his skin, grasping onto his camera for comfort. Ever since he was a kid, his camera had always been Jughead's comfort object. He'd received it as a gift for his eleventh birthday from his father. Granted, the canon was old, probably his dad's when he was young. But he treated the thing like gold, taking it almost everywhere with him. It was like carrying his father. FP Jones had died when he was fifteen, slammed off the road by a drunk driver. They'd been estranged before he died, so Jughead was left with the guilt of never really knowing him. Since his mother had kicked him out when Jughead started high school.

"Are you alright?" Still grasping the camera, he started forwards, but Veronica only laughed cheerily. She still had her back to him, but he couldn't help notice she wasn't searching anymore, only standing with her hands on her hips, her gaze on something out of his line of sight. When she twisted around, that same grin was plastered across crimson lips. It looked almost unnerving. There was something about her expression that turned his gut, sending his heart diving into his throat. "No, it's fine, I'm just looking for my denim jacket." Veronica's eyes widened when she looked past him. "Oh, there it is! It's just draped over the back of the couch. Could you grab it for me, Forsythe?"

His patience was slowly wearing thin. "It's Jughead." He corrected her again, this time with a harsher tone. Turning around, Jughead spied the jacket. But he also wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. He turned back to face her. "So about this guy I'll be photographing," he started, smiling easily, despite the lump in his throat. "What kind of photos do you want? Is he sitting or standing? Is there a specific position you want him to be in?"

He was stalling. Pretty badly. But at the back of his mind, the logic was that if he just fired questions at her, Veronica would jump into action, actually letting him do his job.

Veronica shrugged. She was still smiling. "I don't care what position he's in." 

"What?" Jughead nodded. A bead of sweat slipped down his neck. "You didn't mention a boy," he said slowly. "I was under the impression I was taking pictures of objects."

The girl's eyes narrowed, but her smile was unwavering. She picked up her glass of wine she'd settled on the countertop and took another sip, her lipstick smudging the rim. "My jacket, Forsythe. Could you get it for me?"

For some reason, he didn't move. "Do you not have legs?"

Her eyes were amused. There was no trace of anger of irritation. Veronica let out a huff of breath. "Fine." She said, striding into the lounge, walking right past him and grabbing her jacket. But she didn't put it on, simply tossing it back on the couch. He made quick note of that, taking small steps away from her. But the girl didn't seem to mind that he was breathing heavily out of his nose, his stumbling feet and eyes wide with fear. She seemed to enjoy it. Veronica only moved towards him, matching his pace. 

It wasn't until they were nose to nose, and Jughead was sure he was going to have a panic attack, when the girl spoke. "You have pretty eyes." She murmured, cocking her head to the side. Jughead knew there was nothing special about his eyes. But the girl was staring at them, gaping, as if they were a shade she'd never seen before in her life. "They're like diamonds, Forsythe." Veronica lifted a finger and gently trailed it down his cheek. He shivered. With her this close, he figured he'd smell some kind of perfume. Some fragrance that was hers. But there was nothing. She was smiling. It was a strange smile that sent shivers rocketing down his spine, his heart into a frenzy.

"I love my diamonds." She said in a soft sigh, almost a moan. 

Jughead nodded. "Good to know." He said shakily. It was getting progressively harder to keep control of the situation, as well as his breathing. He was done. Fuck the job, as well as the fifty bucks. This was all kinds of wrong, and he needed out. 

"About them...them.. photos," He managed a choked out laugh, swallowing bile climbing up his throat. "It doesn't matter, okay? I can PayPal you back...a- and I'll just go." 

But he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Veronica Lodge. The girl who had no scent. She was still smiling, her eyes gleaming, her lips stretching into an almost horrific grin. He thinks to the house -- old and seemingly stuck in a time period long since past, even though she seems to be timeless with the house and not. She pouted, edging closer to him, pressing him against the wall. "I thought you were going to take photos for me?" She continued in a low, sultry whine. "Archie's really excited for it too."

"I'd rather go home." Jughead's eyes were stinging. Her whole weight was pinning him to the wall.

For a daddy's girl, she was strong. "You can keep the fifty bucks."

Veronica hummed. "But I don't want the cash, sweetie. I want you. I want you to know what my daddy did to me."

Before he could even fathom what was going on, the girl's lips were gentle on his, so soft, so sweet. And he panicked, kissing her back.

Veronica tasted like...nothing. Her lips were ice cold, and Jughead found himself momentarily stuck in a trance. He was kissing her, and her hands were moving all over him, pawing him. When he managed to let out a choking noise, she pulled away. And he was far too dazed to see the gleam in her eye, the curl on her lip. 

Veronica had been pawing at him, her icy hands going around his neck, fingernails pricking at his skin as she slowly lifted something weighty off his chest. Something that was always there, that would protect him. Jughead blinked rapidly at the girl, who held the camera, dangling it from its string teasingly. He had barely enough time for his mind to kick into gear, to realise she was brandishing it like a weapon, her fingers wrapped around the butt. "You really do have beautiful eyes, Forsythe." She said softly, before the first crack to his temples. The pain exploded, vivid lights dancing across the backs of his eyelids. His legs gave way, but she held him up. Jughead felt her hand fisting his jacket, anchoring him to the wall. Followed by another crack. More pain. This time he did fall- slipping to his knees. But she didn't stop. His eyes were blurry, a ringing noise slamming into his ears. But Veronica yanked his head up, gripped his chin, forcing her to look at him. He did, through bleary vision. He wasn't sure if it was blood or tears.

What he was sure of, was that something warm was oozing down his left temple. 

The girl let out a whine. He sensed her, saw her through a quivering crack in his eyelids. She was so close, her lips brushing against his, her eyes looked like they were lit up the most mesmerising blue, swirling so bright, so pretty. He'd never seen eyes like that. "You smell so good," she whimpered, gasping out. It sounded like euphoria. "Do you even realize?" Veronica's voice turned hysteric. "Do you realize how addicting you are? How much I need you?" Her grip tightened, but he was too weak to pull away. She was like an animal with her prey, ragging him senselessly around like a toy.

He was too out of it to cry for help. 

And then came the final blow. It wasn't as hard as the others, though maybe that was his crumbling self awareness. He felt it only vaguely. It was a blinding flash. Followed by white hot pain which stretched across the back of his skull, swallowing him whole. 

Luckily, he didn't see what Veronica did next.

* * *

On the day Betty Cooper became an official resident of Lodge House, someone had stolen all of her clothes. 

The sign on the front of the beaten up washing machine told her everything she needed to know. Squatting in front of it, she let out a shaky breath and peered into the metal drum one more time, just to see if she was seeing things. But she knew she wasn't. The pile of pastel pinks and blues, her weekly load of laundry, was gone. Even when she reached in with a trembling hand, there was only a singular damp sock. Which she almost laughed at. Because it was her least favourite. It was white with blue polka dots, and no longer had a match. It was a mystery why she hadn't trashed it. Betty dropped the sock with an exasperated sigh. She didn't want to look at the sign. But it was inevitable. It was written in blood red marker. Block capitals. The words screamed at her, and that sickly feeling that had been coiling in her gut all day returned with a vengeance. 

Betty was in a hurry, of course - there were only a couple of machines on the top floor of Far-view Hall, the least valued and most run-down rooms in the least valued, most run-down dorm. Two washing machines, two dryers, and you were lucky if one of them was working on any given day and didn't eat your quarters. There were kids outside, waiting to use the facilities. The majority of them impatient. But she couldn't leave the room. She was still in a fluffy white towel from her shower, her blonde hair hanging in damp rat tails. The only clothes Betty owned had been in the washing machine. She had loaded them in three hours ago before class. But staring into the empty metal drum, where her least favourite pairs of underwear clung onto the sides - she might as well have imagined loading in her clothes, making sure she made a mental checklist to make sure every item was still there. The laundry facilities were in high demand at Riverdale University, and she was lucky to get two loads washed a week. If not, she used the dorm bathroom.

And now her clothes were gone. 

Fucking gone. 

Betty hit the floor with a quiet thud, her knees hitting cool linoleum. Luckily, there was nobody else in the laundry room. But she still wouldn't cry. Her eyes stung. Her chest heaved. But she would not lose it. Instead, she pulled off the piece of paper clinging to a flimsy piece of sellotape and peered at it. Though the words flickered in and out of focus the more she squinted, blinking back hot tears threatening to fall.

HEY, SMART-ASS.  
MISSING SOMETHING?  
CHECK THE HALLWAY.   
C XXX

Cheryl. Who else? Of course she had dotted the I's with hearts.

Plopping down into a plastic white chair, Betty dumped her backpack on the scratched floor and put her head in her hands. Her face felt hot, and she was shaking, and she knew, just knew, that she was going to cry. Cry like the baby they all said she was, too young to be here, too young to be away from Mommy. Betty thought early college admission would be like a dream. She was a High School junior starting her college classes a whole year early. It had been a last minute thing. Yale's admissions team had agreed to accept her if she spent a year at Mara University. Her mother had insisted she stayed at home, but Betty wanted to get a taste of dorm life as well as classes. Which turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life. Two months into her time at the University, Betty already wanted to quit. She wanted to go home and return to Riverdale High. But home was nearly four hours away. A whole car ride away. And Betty refused to be defeated by the trails and retributions of college bullies. She was staying, despite her crumbling spirit. 

Betty had meant to keep her head down, avoiding attracting attention. But it was impossible. The problem was, Betty looked younger than she was. She was small for her age. She'd been dealing with it all her life. Smart and small and average-looking wasn't exactly winning the life lottery; you had to fight for it, whatever it was. Somebody was always laughing at, or hitting, or ignoring you, or a combination of the first two. But Betty wasn't hideous. At least- she didn't think so. Betty was a mess of blonde curls and pale skin. She wore pastel sweaters and jeans. She hadn't been to a party in her life. 

Glancing at her watch, time was dragging. She'd had a plan. Not the best plan, but it was a damn plan. Cheryl went to her last class of the day, Midge was with her boyfriend, and Tina slept through the afternoon. It had been the perfect time to wash her clothes and avoid her dorm mates. But apparently they had other ideas. Betty stood up with newfound determination, despite the fact that her cheeks were still an inferno. She grabbed the straggling socks from the washing drum, yanked open the zip of her backpack, and stuffed them inside. She tightened the towel around herself and choked back another sob. 

It wasn't fair! She wanted to scream. But Betty clenched her fists and forced her legs to move. She stumbled out of the laundry room, keeping her gaze glued to the floor. Whispers started up already, threading through the line of kids. Betty didn't dare look up. 

Her plan: 

Find clothes. If she couldn't find any, buy some.   
And if that failed? Pray the lost and found department were open. It was a Monday afternoon, but she had doubts. 

The steps leading to the girls dorms were concrete. The feeling of them on her bare soles sent shivers down her spine. Betty was rounding the last flight, her hand squeezed around the rusty banister, when a familiar voice rang out, sending her heart into her throat. 

"Betty! There you are!"

Cheryl Blossom was standing on the staircase with the usual suspects. Cheryl reminded her of a Top-shop mannequin; perfect crimson hair that cascaded down her back, flawless pale skin and model like figure. She almost didn't seem real. The girl was smiling like the cat that had ate the canary. And Betty could see why. There was an explosion of light pink and pastel blue on the very bottom floor. Betty squeezed the banister tighter. Her clothes. Cheryl looked smug, her arms crossed over her chest. Betty swallowed hard. Cheryl Blossom was the Queen Bee of Maria University. Betty didn't know college's had Queen Bee's, but she'd come to realize college was exactly like High School. These girls happened to be her dorm mates. Because apparently God hated her. 

This would be the time when she'd question why exactly the Blossom girl couldn't stand her. But Betty knew exactly why. She was a kid who didn't belong in Cheryl's kingdom. She didn't mean to upstage Cheryl in almost all of her classes, it just kind of happened. Answering questions was like a reflex. Betty couldn't help it. 

And now she was pretty sure Cheryl Blossom wanted to murder her. 

Cheryl struck a pose. She was good at that, her body angled against the staircase. Her minions stood by her side, pulling the same face. "Shouldn't you be in last period, right now?" Cheryl asked innocently." Or at least getting your first period?"

Betty flushed. "I'm just here for my clothes." She rushed out, again, trying not to cry. 

The girl hummed. She started up the stairs, the other girls following her. "Go and get them then, Betty Boop."

Ah yes, her nickname. How original. 

Betty hesitated. The girls were closing in on her. She stood still, her hands shaking by her sides. She suddenly felt so exposed in the towel. Tina was holding something, and Betty recognised her purple sweater. "Put some clothes on, stupid bitch."

Betty caught the blur of purple, clinging onto the fabric. 

"And some pants!" Tina trilled, throwing her a pair of jeans. Betty caught them too. Soaking. Tears stung her eyes. They would have to do. 

"Well?" Cheryl mused. "Are you going to get your clothes or not?"

Betty bit her lip. "You're in the way." She said softly. 

"I'm what?"

With confidence she didn't know she had, Betty held her breath. "I said you're in my way," she said shakily. "Move."

Cheryl's smile disappeared. She inclined her head. "What did you just say to me?" 

Fuck.. "I..." Betty squeezed the banister tighter. "I just want-"

"Your clothes?" Cheryl finished off for her. "Why though? Don't you want to show everyone your flat chest?" In a blur of movement, the girl had hold of the towel wrapped around Betty. She acted on instinct, terrified of the redhead ripping off the only thing keeping her decent. "No!" Before she could stop herself, her hand was flying out on its own accord. Betty staggered into the railings, the sound of her hand making contact with Cheryl's cheek twisting her stomach into knots. It was self defence, a way of stopping the girl causing public humiliation. But the crimson smear blossoming on Cheryl's cheek made it clear that she'd gone too far. Tina and Midge were staring, the two of them gaping like they were catching flies. Cheryl looked positively murderous. 

Betty froze, locked in fight or flight. But she couldn't move. 

She couldn't breathe. 

Tina's giggle sliced through her thoughts. "Did a little kid just beat you up, Cheryl?"

Cheryl was stiff. Her lip was curled, green eyes narrowed into slits. "Shut the fuck up, Tina." She said, her gaze still stuck to Betty. At that moment, she couldn't take her eyes off of the mole on her left cheek. It stuck out to her. A flaw. Which was crazy. A flaw on Cheryl Blossom? Maybe she was too busy trying to find more imperfections, proving this girl wasn't as perfect as she seemed. Betty never saw the punch coming. Didn't even really feel the impact, except as a blank sensation and confusion, something slamming into her jaw. But then the weight of Betty's backpack on her shoulder was pulling her to one side and she staggered, letting out a hiss. Her lip was split. Blood ran down her chin. Everything was burning hot. But Cheryl was ready. With a spiteful smile, she slammed both palms into Betty's chest, and letting out a sharp cry, Betty flew. 

Well, it felt like flying. 

It was actually falling. The breath left her lungs, and Betty felt herself slip into thin air, her arms windmilling. Cheryl Blossom's grinning face got further and further away as Betty tumbled down the stairs, her body slamming into each corner. Luckily, she hadn't been pushed off the top. Then she'd be in trouble. The sounds of the girls laughing followed her as she tumbled to the bottom, landing, ironically, face-first into one of her damp shirts. Betty felt it as soon as she hit the ground. Her nose exploding, oozing down her chin. The pain thrumming across the back of her skull, ricocheting through her body. But she couldn't...she couldn't just lie there in a towel, surrounded by her damp laundry. She jumped up, unable to stop the sobs. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, startled at the crimson smear smudged across her pale skin. 

"Go back to Elementary school!" Cheryl yelled down, her laugh following her and she and the others danced away, their laughter echoing down the stairway. 

"Don't come back, Elizabeth!" Tina sang. "The door will be loooocked!"

Betty felt dizzy. After trying to gather up her laundry all at once, she came to the conclusion she couldn't. So she found the nearest girls bathroom, cleaned herself up as best she could, and changed into the damp jeans and shirt they'd thrown at her. Looking in the mirror was a bad idea. Betty looked a state. Her blonde hair was a frenzied mess of blonde curls, an ugly black eye beginning to flower. her lip was split and her eyes were red from crying. As for injuries, her elbow was scraped and her knees were killing. It hurt to walk. The college nurse was all the way across campus and would probably just give her a glass of water. Betty dumped her clothes back in her dorm. But she couldn't stay there tonight. Every piece of her, every atom, wanted to go home. 

So that's how she found herself aimlessly wandering the campus. The darkening sky was filled with lavender and indigo clouds, covering up the first stars of the night, slivers of moonlight seeping through. The grounds were mostly empty, and the early February chill played with her hair. She shivered. She'd managed to grab a jacket and her converse from her dorm, as well as stuff a few belongings into her backpack, but it wasn't thick enough to bear the brunt of the Winter chill without wanting to cry. Everything hurt. Her hands were numb. She found a row of picnic tables, dumping her bag on the first one. Anger streaked through her. Cheryl Blossom was going to kill her. 

Betty let out a soft sob, choking on the freezing air. She yanked open her bag and searched for her phone, dumping each individual item with more force than necessary.

"Take your anger out on your own stuff, not the table." A warm, lilted British accent came from behind her. Startled, Betty whipped around. She hadn't seen him, was absolutely sure the table was empty. And yet there he was. The person the voice belonged to sat across from her. His general state of disarray was almost enough to distract her from his face. The boy—if he could be called that, looked at least two years older than her. He was eighteen, maybe nineteen. Betty's cheeks flushed. She had barely been in the presence of boys, or even girls, choosing study over her social life. This was the first guy she'd properly talked to in years, and he had to be some college guy way out of her league.

He wore a white button-down shirt which covered his lean, spare frame. The shirt looked like it hadn't been ironed- ever. He had olive skin, a strong jaw and chin slightly scruffy, as though he hadn’t shaved in days. Pale blue eyes peered at her through chocolate brown hair sticking from a knitted beanie. There was a battered canon hanging around his neck. Betty lost her breath when she caught his eyes. The light from the moon wasn't reflecting in them, it was filling them. Which she didn't think was possible. This boy with fucking moon-lit eyes was staring at her. In front of him was a styrofoam cup of untouched coffee and a dogeared copy of Twilight. She recognised the cover immediately. 

The boy was sat comfortably, slouched over his book. His gaze flickered back to the pages, the knot between his eyebrows creasing in concentration.

Betty was speechless for a second. 

"Sorry." She whispered, sniffling. Right then, the state of her appearance was all she could think about. Betty wanted to curl into the earth at her feet and die right there. 

The boy shrugged, his eyes dancing back and forth as he seemingly embroiled himself inside the fictional world of vampires. "You're fine." She flinched when he glanced at her again, blue eyes widening, lips twisting. "Jesus, were you punched by a rhino?"

"A Blossom." Betty muttered, and the buy hummed. "Makes sense." He straightened up with a sigh, putting the book down. Leaning across the table, he cocked his head. "You look like you've had a rough night." He jutted his chin at her injury. "Looks painful.

Betty let her fingers graze her temples. It stung like a bitch. But she didn't make a face. "I'm fine. It's just a scratch."

The boy chuckled. "If you say so." He leaned back, but didn't return to his book. Instead, he tipped his head back, smiling widely at the moon. "I love it out here." His eyes flickered shut. Betty frowned at him. This boy was crazy. It was bitterly cold and he was sitting there in a short sleeved button down grinning at the moonlit sky, reading Twilight of all books. 

He startled her with a chuckle. "The High school is just down the road, by the way." The boy said, not opening his eyes. He pulled his legs up, resting them on the bench, wrapping his arms around his knees. All of this without a peep. She stared at him, baffled by the way he moved. So graceful. As if the moon was controlling him, puppeteering his every move. When he was comfortable, he sighed. "Are you lost?"

Betty curled her lip. "I got early admittance. If you must know."

He laughed. It was a good laugh. But he still didn't open his eyes. "So you're a high school kid going to college? What, are you some kind of junior Einstein?"

"I'm seventeen."

"Your point?"

Betty ignored him. Asshole. She turned away from the strange boy, and back to her main concern: Where she was going to sleep tonight. The dorm was a no-go. Home was hours away. She flinched when babyish tears trickled down her cheeks. 

The boy let out a sigh, and she turned back to him, unable to hide her frustration. This time his eyes were open, his gaze on the moon which lit up the sky, as well as his eyes, turning them a whole new shade of blue. "Man, I miss this."

She couldn't help it. "You miss this? Miss what?"

"Being out here, of course."

"What?"

His lips curved into a smirk. "I don't get out much." The boy sighed, before straightening up. His gaze seemed to take all of her in, that interesting shade of blue shifting over her face before she noticed his fingers twitching against the camera. The intensity was for only a second, but it felt so much longer. Betty frowned and the boy’s hand slipped away from the beaten up camera. In the blink of an eye, his expression went neutral again. "You really need to get that looked at," He jutted his chin, gesturing to her face. "No offence, sweetheart, but you look pretty beat up."

Betty blushed. She couldn't help it. "I said I'm fine."

He shrugged, studying her carefully. "I'm good at reading people. You're not fine."

"Oh yeah?" She couldn't help strike back. "Prove it."

The raven-head's lip curled. "You were bullied out of your dorm room and pushed down the stairs by Cheryl Blossom. The gash on your head is the product of your skull slamming into each individual step, which stings like a bitch." He nodded at her pack. "And now you're contemplating ringing your parents because you currently have nowhere to stay."

Betty avoided the boy's teasing eyes. "Lucky guess."

"And?"

Her head snapped up. The moon was pooling in his eyes once again, glittering silver around his iris. Betty briefly wondered if she really did have concussion. She blinked. "What?"

The boy chuckled. "And... was I right? Do you have nowhere to stay?"

The words were slipping from her lips before she could help them. "Of course I do."

"Uh-huh." He inclined his head. "Well, if you really are struggling to find somewhere to stay, I share a house with some friends of mine. We're all pretty chill, and we actually have a spare room we've been planning to rent out. You're in luck." He shot her a smirk when Betty's fingers ghosted across her left temple. She winced, biting her lip. He looked amused. "We also have a first aid box, so I can get you properly fixed up." The boy edged closer to her, his expression growing dark. Yet his smile remained. "Though I should warn you. Didn't your parents ever tell you not to follow a stranger home?"

She ignored that. "Off campus?"

"Yeah. We're all Sophomores, so we're in a house share." 

"But freshmen aren't supposed to live off campus." 

He raised a brow. "It's for one night, sweetheart. I doubt it'll kill you."

Betty stared back at him. Was this guy seriously offering her a place to stay? It seemed too good to be true. She looked up, finding the campus empty. Except the two of them. Technically, she had no choice. The accommodation office shut early. She swallowed. Her cheeks were smouldering. "I don't even know your name."

The boy chuckled. "Jughead Jones. You?"

* * *


	2. Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gotta catch em all.

* * *

He didn't stay unconscious for long.

Maybe that was a bad thing. The pain came in throbbing pulses that inched around the back of his skull. That was the first feeling; pain. The second was... cold. It was so cold. He automatically curled into himself, trying to press warmth into his body. But moving was a mistake. It was like being electrocuted consecutively. Jughead awoke to Veronica's singing. In the sludgy mess of his mind, which was struggling to fully comprehend the situation, he recognised the nursery rhyme. As a kid, the tune had meant games and teasing. It had meant playing with his friends, having no care in the world. Though now? Not so much. The lyrics meant something entirely different, a cruel and teasing poke at the foreboding of his fate. But he had to admit it; her voice was beautiful. It flittered around the room with her, a haunting melody drilling through his skull. He'd be crazy to call it relaxing or reassuring, but his fight began to bleed away slowly the more she sang, and the words hit him like bolts of lightning, one after the other. 

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,  
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;  
All the King's horses  
And all the King's men,"

Jughead sensed her in front of him, but he didn't dare open his eyes. He could taste blood on his lips, coating the back of his throat. It oozed down his right temple, and when he moved his head slightly, electrifying pain slammed into him like an ocean wave. He could feel her breath tickling his cheeks, hear her soft murmurs. Veronica had stopped singing, but he knew she was waiting for him to open his eyes, so she could come to the climax. The ending. But he refused to. Tears stung his eyes and dribbled down his cheeks, and it hurt. It hurt to cry. It hurt to breathe. He managed to suck in a breath and savour it, revelling in how good it felt to inhale and exhale. Even if it hurt. 

Jughead ached. Every single bone in his body was crying out for help, and he couldn't muster words at the back of his throat. It took several seconds to realize he couldn't move. He was sitting down, his back stiff against something digging into his spine. A chair. When he tried moving his hands, he found he couldn't. They were pinned behind him, zip-ties cutting lacerations into his wrists. His memories were fuzzy, but they were in enough clarity for him to remember her kissing him, only to brutally beat him unconscious with his own camera. Jughead's chest tightened. The familiar comforting weight of his canon was gone. He let out a strangled breath, his chest heaving with sobs. 

Don't cry. Jughead told himself. 

What did his old man always say? Never show weakness. But he couldn't help it. He was in too much pain to try and hold it back, try and suppress it. It was freezing cold, his body wrapped in a bitter breeze numbing him from the inside. His jacket and shoes had been removed, and Jughead was left in his shirt and jeans, his bare soles tickling the concrete floor. He'd never felt more exposed, more naked, in his life. Tears spilled down his cheeks, "Veronica." Jughead's voice was weak, and he hated it. 

And then there she was, her breath grazing his cheeks. "Couldn't put Jughead together again." It was the first time she'd called him by his actual name, and it still felt wrong. Veronica ended the rhyme with a giggle, and he flinched when she ran a hand through his hair, carding her fingers through his curls. "It's going to be okay, Forsythe."

He couldn't resist letting out a hysterical cry, his eyes snapping open. Through flickering lashes, there was Veronica. She was crouched in front of him, bathed in sickly yellow light sputtering from a dying bulb above him. When he twisted his head, his gaze darted manically, looking for escape. It looked like he was in a basement of sorts. It was small and mostly empty, wooden walls and concrete floors. There were piles upon piles of wood wrapped in plastic. He was situated in the middle, right under the light. "Right." Jughead said hoarsely. "So you bludgeon me with my own fucking camera," Wincing, he leaned towards the girl, as far as he could go. His eyes narrowed. "And then you knock me out, drag me to your basement and tell me everything is bloody fine?!"

Veronica's grin widened. Her eyes glowed bright in the din, that maniacal gleam sending shivers through him. "You have a lot more fight in you than Archie did," she said, and Jughead couldn't help but take immediately note of the way she said did, emphasising past tense. A cry grew strangled at the back of his throat. She leaned closer, a thin finger coming out to trail along the side of his face, and he flinched at the shock of cold, as though she had no body heat in her at all. Her touch sent a panic through him, an urge to flee, to run, to not look back, but he was trapped, the plastic around his wrists tight and unrelenting as he struggled. He wondered who Archie was. He wondered if he had fought like him, if he really was a Pokemon nerd like she'd said. "I look forward to hearing that voice for eternity." His attention snapped back to her, eyes widening, especially when he took note of the knife she seemed to have produced out of thin air. He opened his mouth to speak - though what he was going to say, he had no idea - when she continued. "And I'm especially going to look forward to looking at those diamond eyes, too."

Jughead wanted to demand what exactly she'd done with Pokemon Card Guy. He wanted to scream at her until his throat was raw, his chest heaving. But all that managed to slip from his lips was, "You're going to keep me here?" His voice was a childlike whimper, a soft sob he couldn't help. He struggled violently, but the restraints were relentless.

The girl hummed. "In a sense, yes!" She trilled. "We'll have all our eternities here, Forsythe! You, me and Archie."

"What?" He all but whimpered. "You're not making any sense!"

Veronica straightened up. "Oh! Of course, the pictures!" She turned and picked something up off the floor. Jughead recognised it automatically. It was his bust camera. It looked barely recognisable, still hanging from its ribbon. "Pity." The girl sighed, pointing the camera at the floor. Jughead stiffened. Bile crawled up his throat. His heart began to pound; ba bum, ba bum, ba bum. "I was going to take pictures of Archie."

Since he'd woken up, part of Jughead had shut down, refusing to register several things he had already noticed. His gaze had already taken them in, but not fully understood what he was seeing. He'd noticed the pool of red at his feet, the scarlet stream on concrete which was very quickly congealing. It reminded him of the time he'd spilled a glass of red wine all over his mother's prize carpet. But this stuff was thicker. He'd noticed the shape moulding into the din, blending into the darkness like it belonged there. But it wasn't just a shape. He saw the curve of a back, knees tucked into the foetal position. 

It was similar to the feeling that had hit him when his mother had broke the news that his father wouldn't be coming home. Ever. It was denial. A screech building in his throat, ready to claw out, ready to make itself known. But his breath was gone, his head was going to explode. Jughead's brain immediately tried to protect him from the trauma, attempting to push it down, force him to believe what he was seeing was a figment of his imagination. But his mind couldn't suppress what he was seeing forever. All at once, it let go. Maybe it was how weak he was, or that he simply begged his own thoughts to allow him to see this. To register this. Because it was real. He took in small details at once. The boy was his age. He wore a thin shirt clinging to pale skin splattered scarlet, the same colour which seemed to paint him, matching rich red hair falling over closed eyes which looked far too peaceful for someone with his fate. Again, Jughead's mind tried to hide things like the dried blood pooling down the boy's face. It didn't seem to stop, spider webbing down ghostly white skin. Jughead blinked slowly. His breaths thinned. 

"Is he dead?" He manged to whisper, unable to take his eyes off of the boy. Again, his gaze was sweeping across the stranger. There was an explosion of something in the red. Definitely eye catching. A flurry of colours. Cards. They looked so out of place, lying in ugly scarlet trails. Something so childish, so innocent. Pokemon cards. They were spread out underneath the boy, as if Veronica had unleashed her wrath the second he walked through the door. Jughead tore his eyes away. His question was ridiculous, because there wasn't an atom inside him that had hope this kid was still alive. But he still said it, and then he said it again, choking on an incredulous cry. "Is he...is he dead?!"

Veronica cocked her head. "I'm actually not sure!" She kicked the boy in the back. He didn't move. "Uh, yep!" She laughed. "I'm pretty sure he's dead!"

The manic look in the girls eyes disappeared for a moment. She folded her arms with a sigh. "Poor Archie," She murmured. "He just wanted to show me his card collection. He was sweet, really. Though sweet things get stuck in my teeth. They cause cavities."

Jughead couldn't breathe. "You killed him. You...oh, God, you killed...you killed him!" This boy had no identity. Only a name. Only a so-called hobby. But he was so much more, surely. This boy had been alive. Breathing. He had laughed and cried, had romances and heartbreaks. A family. Friends. A future. Now he was lying at Jughead's feet, all of that, every part of him gone. Everything that made this boy who he was- was gone. That thought was overwhelming. A hysterical sob climbed up his throat, but he swallowed it. 

Veronica pouted. "Are you crying? I'm sorry, baby. I couldn't resist."

Something else that his mind had suppressed: The knife in her hand. Veronica alternated between the knife and his camera, the shadow of the blade glinting in the gloom. Jughead turned away from the raven-head, shivering, sobbing. He could feel himself starting to hyperventilate. "Please," He managed to gasp out, despite knowing that this was where his life would be cut short. Like Archie's. He strained against the zip-ties, gasping for precious breath. "Please let me go. I- I wont tell anyone, I p - promise."

Veronica hummed softly. She straddled his lap easily, leaning so close, icy cold breath grazing his cheeks. He began to cry. Big, heavy sobs that racked his whole body. She put a finger to his lips. "Don't you want to be with me forever? I saw the way you were looking at me. I could taste your intrigue. You could have me. I want you to have me, Forsythe. I want you and Archie because I've been so bored. So hungry." Her eyes flashed cerulean. Inhuman blue. "Do you know what it's like, Forsythe?" Veronica breathed, her lips dancing across his. She blew out a soft breath. "It's killing me from the inside, like a a constant raging hunger. Do you know what it's like to be that hungry? A carnivorous hole inside you gnawing away at everything you are, everything you were supposed to be?" He jumped when Veronica's voice stretched into a manic screech. 

"And I..." Veronica let out a soft sigh. " I can't hold back anymore. I can't stop myself, it's too strong. Too powerful. And you smell so good, Forsythe. So, so good. Just like him." She gestured to the dead boy. Her eyes sparkled. "With you...it's crazy. I can see blue and yellow and gold." She giggled, reaching out and cupping the air. Something that only she saw. "Archie was a mixture of red and black. But you? You're so bright!"

Jughead blinked rapidly at her. "I don't...I don't understand."

"The colours, of course! You're filled with them, Forsythe."

And all the while, he couldn't take his eyes off of the knife in her hand. Veronica caught him staring, her lips stretching into a smile. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

It was those words that send his thoughts into a tail spin. But he had no time to cry out. No time to scream or try and force her from his lap. Because she was too strong, pressed against him. In the moments it took for the girl to stroke the teeth of the knife against his cheek, Jughead came to the dizzying realisation that she wasn't going to keep him here. This crazy girl wasn't going to let him out. Let him continue to breathe.

This musty basement, the secret hiding underneath Veronica Lodge's house, would become his final resting place. Just like Pokemon Guy- or Archie- he would be ripped from life. It was hard to come to terms with. He didn't have time to think about dying, because he had no time left. Time was a funny thing. It went by so quickly when Jughead wasn't paying attention. He felt the knife go in. And maybe Veronica was trying to distract him while she put the final pieces into play. She was kissing him again, and with the pain that exploded in his chest, the neutron star collision igniting across his eyelids, he might have mistaken the sensation for euphoria. The pain was like nothing he'd felt before. It bit into his being, ice cold skittering through him. He felt the knife inside puncturing. Vital parts. All he was. All he thought he'd be. But Veronica pushed it deeper, so much so that blood was slipping through his lips. It tasted like rusty change. 

He didn't cry. Jughead didn't make much of a noise at all. The room grew colder, and it got harder to breathe, harder to keep his flickering eyes open. He was half aware of the girl still straddling him, the knife still penetrating him. It was an intrusion he didn't want. Didn't like. Because the pain was too much. The pain was making him want to die, but he was....far too young. He was 18 years old. Jughead had his whole life ahead of him. But unbeknown the boy, that life was very quickly slipping away, pooling from him. 

And he was fading. Jughead knew that. The pretty expanse of colours in his eyes were getting less vivid, spiralling into shapeless clouds spotting his vision. 

His head was tipped back. He felt Veronica's hand grasping his chin, her lips, so cold, pressed against his once more. It was a kiss of death, his deteriorating thoughts muttered. Maybe he really was losing it as Jughead teetered on the edge of life, so close to death. So close to the oblivion he was't ready for. But Jughead was so sure he felt something leaving him. It wasn't blood. Something else. Something Veronica Lodge wanted, which was clear in her soft moans, her gasps for breath. His breath. His life. 

Part of Jughead wanted to ask what she was doing, as steady hands forced his head back, icy lips latched onto his own. But he was too far gone, dancing between existence and not. If he had a choice, Jughead would step back. He'd turn and stumble back the other way, far, far away from the unknown which was getting closer and closer and closer. 

But he didn't have a choice. Slowly, Jughead's sense of feeling began to drift. Veronica's harsh hold on him, her lips stealing his thinning breath. The pain, which had dulled to almost nothing. It was a relief. All of it slipped away. It felt natural, like he was drowning. But he was past the panicking stage. Jughead simply let his eyes flicker shut. Sleep. It was like going to sleep. That fleeting thought was comforting. 

And then...He simply let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so two mains are already dead? ;) hmmm
> 
> we gettin' to the meat of the story next chapter :D let me know you're reading, so i can publish more, and leave kudos if you liked! Thanks for reading! ♥️


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